


The Peacekeeper and the Just

by DeCarabas



Series: Fugitives Together [28]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Act 3, Dragon Age Quest: Justice, Gen, Past Anders/Karl - Freeform, but the possibility is mentioned, it does not happen, mention of possibility of major character death, tranquility mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeCarabas/pseuds/DeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders in the chantry during the Justice quest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Peacekeeper and the Just

There was nothing to mark the spot where Karl had died. He knew there was no reason there should be, but he still wanted that white marble to be stained. It should have been pitted with the marks of their battle with the templars. At the very least, the tiles should have been imperfectly replaced, leaving crooked cracks between them. Some proof of Karl’s life.

They’d repaired it too well.

_We could all throw ourselves against the walls of the Chantry until we’re battered bloody, trying to get them to listen, and they’d just tut and clean away the blood as if we’d never been there at all. That’s their idea of keeping the peace, isn’t it? Everything’s fine as long as we just keep the ugliness locked up, away from where decent people might see._

A sick feeling curled through the base of Anders’ stomach as he turned away from the bare tiles, and he tried to swallow down his rage. That was vengeance talking, not justice, and he needed Justice’s clear sense of purpose now.

If there was a difference. If there had ever been a difference. If it mattered.

As he’d promised Hawke, his business didn’t take long. When he made his way back to the main room of the chantry, unnoticed, Hawke and Elthina were still wrapped in heated conversation beneath the towering figure of Andraste.

Maker, he hated that statue.

It went beyond just the ridiculously wasteful displays of wealth that Hightown loved so much. This monstrosity looked as if it belonged in the Gallows, right alongside the agonized statues of slaves—possibly taking a whip to them. What was it about this city that made people latch onto images of fear and intimidation? The chantry doors looked like you could impale yourself on them, as if they might bite you if you weren’t careful. Even the massive sunburst banner, the first thing he saw every time he walked in the doors—it should have been a symbol of faith, but all he could see when he looked at it was the emotionless eyes of those he’d failed by delaying so long.

And that would be his fate if this went wrong, he was almost sure of it. Not execution. Meredith would want to make an example of him, and there would be no Warden-Commander swooping in to the rescue this time. The people locked up in the Gallows were as good as dead anyway, she’d be bringing the Rite of Annulment down on them any day now; but him, he’d be the proof of all her accusations. Murderer, abomination, the worst of what mages could be. She'd just love to parade him around, to shut down anyone who dared question her. He could be her next Tranquil assistant.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Below Andraste’s statue, a woman knelt before a row of lit candles, clasping her hands and chanting as sincerely as any desperate apprentice in the Kinloch Hold chapel. Despite everything, the Chantry still inspired faith.

“Blessed art thou who exists in the sight of the Maker. Sing of the Chant so that it may reach His ears.”

_I can’t even manage to reach the grand cleric’s ears. I hope you have better luck than I did._

He wondered if she would be here when the time came. It wouldn’t be until after nightfall, when there were unlikely to be many worshippers around, but there was always the chance.

Looking at the faces of the few people in the room, he’d thought he would start to falter, as if he should see in them some symbol of his crime. But they were just people. A sister was chatting about floral arrangements in the hallway. It didn’t seem real.

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.”

The kneeling woman’s voice followed him as he climbed the stairs to where Hawke was waiting.

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”

Hawke’s discussion with the grand cleric was going about as well as he’d expected, with Elthina making the same tired excuses for her complacency, just as she’d been doing for all the years he’d lived in Kirkwall. He’d been beating his head against this wall for so long, he had her speeches down by heart. Pity for the mages locked in the Gallows. Patience and faith that her templars would solve their problems on their own. Counseling peace, if the terror the mages lived with could be called peace; turning a blind eye to the abuses carried out by her own people, just as long as there wasn’t rioting in the streets.

Suppressing open conflict. That was all that mattered, wasn’t it?

He would have agreed with her once. He’d spent so much time trying to find another way—wasted so much time. All the arguments, the letters, the drafts of the manifesto, all the words carefully chosen and endlessly rearranged, as though if he could just find the right words then people would see, they’d understand, they’d do something, they’d help him. It was a joke. He couldn't sway his own friends to care about the lives of the mages, nevermind Elthina. One word from her had the power to send Meredith running off like a scolded child, to end this without bloodshed, if he could only convince her to act; but he couldn't even manage that.

Things were getting worse, not better. If he’d acted sooner, while there was still a mage underground to fight back against the templars, how many people like Karl could have been saved?

He was as guilty of complacency as the grand cleric.

“I only hope I can balance the needs of everyone,” Elthina was saying as he reached the top of the stairs. “For if it comes to war, it is the people of this city who will lose.”

From the furious look on Hawke’s face, Anders almost hated to interrupt. But it was worth it to watch the way his expression softened the moment he saw Anders, the furrow between his eyebrows smoothing away.

If anything could make him falter now, it was that look.

_I’m so sorry for what I’m going to put you through, love._

“There you are,” he said out loud. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

It wasn’t just about the way Hawke looked at him. It was about the way he looked at all of Kirkwall. Half the time Anders felt like this whole blighted city was determined to slide into the Void, and no matter how hard he tried to drag it back, all he could manage was to hold on by his fingernails while it pulled him down with it. But Hawke, he could just sweep through and force things back into place, doing the impossible over and over again as if it was only natural. When he was caught up in Hawke’s orbit, it seemed like every problem could be solved as simply and straightforwardly as that.

His beautiful distraction.

The thought of looking at Hawke and feeling nothing, the thought of what might happen if this all went wrong—he had be sure it wouldn’t come to that.

He wanted so badly to keep Hawke out of all of this, but he still needed one last favor. He couldn’t afford to let Meredith take him and turn him into all the validation she’d ever need, a living symbol of her Maker-given right to keep them in chains; and he couldn’t trust himself to do what had to be done.

Hawke would hate him for this, but he’d understand. He'd been there with Karl. He’d said it himself, _I would rather die than be Tranquil_.

They were silent as they walked out of the chantry, and he tried to ignore Hawke’s eyes on him, waiting for answers he couldn’t give. As the heavy doors swung open, the last rays of sunlight gleamed off the intricate figure of Andraste, setting the bronze alight as if she were standing on her pyre.

_You went to war to free your people. Would you blame me for doing as much for mine?_


End file.
